


By Chance Or By Choice

by PiratesChoice



Category: A.C.E (Beat Interactive Band)
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Brotherhood, Friendship, Gen, Past Lives, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-10-27 13:17:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20760986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PiratesChoice/pseuds/PiratesChoice
Summary: It was supposed to be a simple past life reading. But the hands of fate slipped and the timelines got tangled.Wrenched back into their previous lives, Jun, Donghun, Byeongkwan, Sehyoon and Chan must search to find a way back to the present - but first, they must find themselves.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based very loosely on the 'past life' episodes of Beat TV - with lots of creative license! I've used elements of their past lives but have been creative in parts to tell the best story. I also began writing prior to Donghun's episode, so his backstory is my own creation.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it, Choice.

“And on three, you’re going to leave your past life and return to your body.”

Donghun rolled his eyes, not quite able to catch the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. The cynicism he’d brought into this pokey room an hour ago hadn’t faded – but it looked like he was on his own.

“_Woah._ So Jun was some kind of performer in his past life?” Chan’s eyes were round as he swivelled to face his older friends. “That makes so much sense! Ack, why wasn’t I something cool like that in my past life?” 

“At least you didn’t get brutally slaughtered.” Byeongkwan glared at Chan, looking perturbed. He jutted his chin at Sehyoon. “Or freeze to death.”

Donghun sat back as they started to squabble over who had the most miserable past life, a pierced eyebrow raised. As the eldest member of A.C.E, it often fell to him to be the voice of reason. Today was no different.

“Come on,” he said. “Cameras are off, you don’t need to keep pretending.” He glanced over at their staff, who were packing away the cameras used to film the reality segment for their fans. “You don’t believe all that stuff, do you?”

“I’m not pretending!” Chan looked affronted. He watched their fifth friend, who was still lying in an armchair, yet to come around from his reading. “I wouldn’t cry like that if I was pretending.” Fleeting embarrassment crossed his face, recalling his reaction to his supposed past family. “I can see myself living a simple life.”

This time, Donghun didn’t bother biting back the smirk. He gave their youngest a playful shove. “Just simple? Are you sure you weren’t a lowlife, Beggar Chan?” He laughed as he earned a smack in the ribs.

“Yeah, well maybe it’s a good job you sing _Cactus_ in this life, seeing as we all know in your last life, you’d have been a pri-”

It was the fear that flashed across Sehyoon’s eyes that made Donghun freeze. They knew each other too well - he recognised that rare slip in composure. He followed Sehyoon’s eyeline, and his heart jolted.

A distinct tremor ran through Jun’s body. His eyes were still shut, but his eyebrows knitted as he choked for air.

“Junhee!” Donghun was on his feet in an instant. He grabbed one of Jun’s hands, which shuddered in his own. He cast around desperately – but the past life reader had backed away, his eyes wide with shock. “What have you done to him? Call 119! Someone!” Panic clenched his heart.

“_Hyung_, what’s happening? Is it a seizure?” Chan scrabbled at Donghun’s sleeve as Jun’s tremors intensified. On the other side of the armchair, Sehyoon and Byeongkwan joined Donghun’s attempt to keep their leader still. 

“Why isn’t anyone calling-?” He looked up desperately, but at the very moment he registered that no one else remained in the room, his vision twisted. Sounds went muddy. The lights flickered.

His trembling fingers slipped from Jun’s.

He registered a dull pain as his knees hit the floor. Like a ship on some great wave, the room pitched violently from side to side. White lights blinded him like a strobe. He could just make out the crumpled form of their _maknae_ convulsing on the floor. Invisible fingers squeezed his throat until all that remained was the sound of his own choking.

A deep bell tolled.

Donghun’s vision distorted again. Through the kaleidoscope, he met Sehyoon’s foggy eyes, then his head became too heavy and he stared down at his shaking hands. Like ink leaking across his skin, a dark mark spread across his arm. He gulped for air. _1342._

Again the bell tolled.

There was no space left in his mind for fear. As the bell rang an eighth time, Donghun’s face met cold tiles. With his final energy, a dull voice deep in his consciousness wished that if this was death, it would just take him. Spare the others.

The bell tolled a ninth time. And all turned to white.

***

The clocktower bell was their cue that the show was about to start. The waiting crowds fell silent in expectation, craning their necks to peek at the readying performers. A December frost had descended on north England and crystallised the town in ice. It would take more than mid-winter to deter the townsfolk from coming to see the show, however, and their breath rose up like a white cloud to meet the wintry haze.

Bali tucked his hands deeper into his armpits to stave off the cold and watched the young girls run out onto the stage to cheerful applause. The years were ticking on, and along with the flecks of silver hairs appearing at his temples, the winter brought a new kind of ache that set into his very bones. And these days, the tiredness that used to wax and wane had settled in for good.

A crack across his back jolted him out of his reverie.

“Get moving. It’s nearly time.” 

Asher’s words weren’t needed – his baton left Bali’s back stinging. It was nothing personal, though, as the leader rounded up the other jesters in the same fashion. The dancing girls soon hopped and skipped from the stage with beaming smiles, waving to their cheering audience. The last to leave, her wild red hair bouncing as she jogged, met Bali’s eyes as she passed. He felt his stomach lurch, and for the first time that day, a smile tugged on his lips.

But it wouldn’t do to dwell on that one too long. The mixture of excitement and guilt always culminated in a resigned self-loathing, given too much time to brew. Instead, Bali turned his focus to the stage and stepped out with the others.

Their routine was a façade. The jesters’ dance was filled with comedy and tomfoolery, and soon the cold air was filled with laughter. But all the palace’s performers knew that their act was the hardest. Every false stumble was choreographed to perfection, every leap and tumble was driven from hours of practice and pain. It took force to look so foolish, and discipline to appear effortless, and beneath the colourful costumes, their bodies were hard and strong.

It was those three minutes of every week that banished the demons from Bali’s heart. For all his life, music was the only thing that had the power to turn all the fear and sadness in his veins to dust. For three minutes, he forgot the way his parents had abandoned him, forgot the journey to England in search of a better life - only to end up here - forgot the welts on his skin and years of gruelling practice. The only thing that mattered was the music running through his limbs. It was his only escape. 

And all too soon it was over. The crowd cheered, still giggling at the display, while the jesters ducked a bow and left the stage for the next act. Asher immediately berated two of the younger performers, his voice snapping colder than the weather.

“Do you know you represent your king when you perform? Do you think a performance like that is acceptable? I should-”  
Bali shuddered, reminded all too swiftly of his own early days and the scars he had earned from so much as a foot misplaced on stage. Avoiding eye contact with anyone else, he grabbed his cloak from the back of a chair, wrapped it tight around his shoulders and slipped off to make his way home. 

He hadn’t got very far when someone fell into step with him.

“You did well today.” The flare of red curls danced brightly against the whited-out landscape. Bali didn’t even look up, but he failed to fight a smile.

“So did you. You always do.” He glanced at Isabel, and his insides did their usual lurch. If music was his first happiness, Isabel was a close second. Her slate eyes reflected a version of himself he couldn’t fathom – strong, gentle, kind and intelligent, and he wondered every day how he’d managed to kid her into believing all those things.

“I’ve missed you. Can I see you soon?” Her hand brushed his.

“Ssh,” he urged, reluctantly pushing her fingers away. “Be careful.” His voice softened. “We’ll find a way. I promise.” He sighed, a familiar despondency creeping over him as they neared his home. “I’ll find some time.”

“Soon.” Isabel insisted, but Bali knew she understood the way things had to be. She had her own family too.

As they parted, Bali risked a single glance back over his shoulder, before heading inside.

“How am I supposed to live through another winter without enough money for firewood?” The front door had yet to shut before Alice rounded on him. His wife’s sharp face was pulled into an accusatory glare. It was such a common expression these days, he wondered if she even remembered how to smile. “It’s winter, we can barely afford to eat, and we have to live in the freezing cold.” She scoffed. “Why my family thought the best I could do was marry a performer, I ask myself every day!” She spat the word with her usual contempt.

Bali moved past her, hanging up his cloak with a sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m doing all I can.”

“Well, all you can isn’t much, is it.” She banged a pot down hard as she cleaned. “I can hardly blame Mac for running off. I wish he’d taken me with him.”

That one hurt. Bali winced at the name of their son, and fresh sadness made him reel as hard as the day he’d found then note.

“I’m going to clean up,” he said quietly, heading to the washroom without looking at Alice. Her voice trailed after him as he shut the door.

“Good luck not getting frostbite.”

The quiet of the little room was welcome. Bali ran cold hands through his hair and rubbed his face, tired. Any moment of joy brought by Isabel dissipated, and his old dejection returned home. He sank down to sit against the wall. Unhappiness felt so familiar, these days, he wore it like a second skin.

But it wasn’t just because of Alice. She had a point – what woman would want to be married off to a performer who could barely make ends meet? It wasn’t just the loveless marriage, it wasn’t losing his only son, nor losing his own parents. He felt as though he had lost himself. For as long as he could remember, he felt like something vital was missing. He could just never put his finger on what.

***

The bell that rang for last orders signalled a rush of footsteps to the bar. Fabio squinted in that direction; he’d only had a couple of ales, but it had made his head a little fuzzy. The life of a messenger meant running up and down to the palace all day long, and when he finally stopped to have a warming drink, it quickly seeped into his veins.

“I hear news that there’s a blizzard on its way from the south.” Of the five men sat around his table, Favian was always the one fretting over something. The scrawny youngster bit his lip. “I hope it’s not as bad as last year. The livestock don’t stand a chance. Elias and Mac are in trouble.”

“They’ll be fine.” Fabio rolled his eyes, kicking his feet up on a spare chair and nearly losing his balance completely. “They’ve lived through worse.”

“Aye, the diseases over summer were worse than a spot of snow.” James nodded. “The lads pulled through all that back in June.”

The bell for last orders rang so loud, Fabio felt like it clanged against his skull.

He jumped in shock, glaring at the barmen, but no one else reacted. He frowned, feeling suddenly uneven. Was he really that drunk?

_All that back in June._

The words sounded odd, like they were knocking at some sleeping part of his brain. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and turned his attention back to the conversation around him.

“…well, you say that, I’m sure they’d like to avoid it if they had the choice.”

The bell rang again.

_All that back in June. June. Choice._

With violent clarity, images flashed across his mind. Seoul. Huddling in the corner of his favourite café with a book. Dancing. Singing. Watching horror movies with four other boys – boys who felt like brothers. Stages. Hearing a thousand people chanting his name: _Lee Donghun! Lee Donghun!_

“Fabio, are you alright? You look like the Holy Ghost’s just appeared in front of you.”

Donghun stared at them. He knew them, he knew this life, the memories were all there. But this was all wrong. This wasn’t where he should be. Seoul, that was his home now. He cast around at the candlelit room and the men huddled in cloaks. Seoul – a long time in the future. He clamped his eyes shut. They had been together, in a room, they had-

“The past life reading!” Donghun leaped out of his chair, forgot he had been drinking, and took an unsteady step to one side. Sudden sickness washed through his guts. _His best friend lying there, trembling, choking…_

“Junhee-ah!” he exclaimed, but the words he reached for next caught stubbornly in his throat. He looked down at his own unfamiliar, white skin, and realised he couldn’t quite reach the words he wanted. They dangled just out of reach, veiled behind a fluency in English.

The others watched him, bewildered.

“The past what?” James echoed. “How much have you had to drink..?”

“I-” Donghun shook his head again, two sets of memories bleeding into one like two liquids spilled into each other. “I have to go. I’m… not supposed to be here.”  
Heart racing, he turned to leave as Favian piped up.

“Not supposed to be here? And he’s the only one without a wife waiting to beat him over the head for drinking. Poor old Mac wasn’t even allowed to join us.”  
Donghun stopped dead.

“Mac.” He wheeled back to the group, who continued to stare at him like he’d grown an extra head. His mind raced through the past life reading. Mac – was he sure it had been Mac? But it felt as though the reading had been just hours ago, and there was no mistaking the name. “Mac is a farmer?”

This time, James looked at him like he’d finally lost his mind. “What are you on about, Fabio? Mac. Your friend, Mac..?”

“Yes, where is his-” But he didn’t need to finish his sentence. Fabio’s memories were pressed over his own like a sheet of tracing paper, and he realised he knew exactly where to find Mac. And he had to get there fast. Without a goodbye, he turned on his heel and broke into a run.


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The members have been hauled back into their past lives - and for some, it's not the happiest place to be. Donghun may have come to his senses, but can he find Mac and remind him of his identity? And what of the others?

Deep in the woods, all was silent.

Sunlight trickled through the trees, filtered green by the dense sky of leaves. Frost glistened on the places it touched like unearthed treasure. The winter air had created a frozen world; nothing stirred.

The gentlest tinkle of a tiny silver bell broke the quiet.

For a moment, Jan didn’t move. He remained a statue, crouched, like the winter had caught him and rendered him in ice. When the bells attached to the tripwire jangled again, his fingers curled, slowly, around the nocked arrow. In a single movement, he span out from behind the old oak, raised and drew his bow, and loosed the arrow. It whistled and sunk into the rabbit. His aim was deadly.

Gathering up the limp carcass, the unseeing eyes of the rabbit provoked no emotion. It was survival, nothing more and nothing less – and he had been helping his family survive since his earliest memories began. He’d learned to use a bow, skin a rabbit and name every plant in the woods before he’d so much as learned to write the alphabet.

“Three?” Pip appeared at his shoulder as he lashed the latest rabbit to the makeshift brace hung around his hips. His sister may have been nearly as tall as him, but she moved on silent feet. He gave her half a smile as confirmation; he’d never been one for many words. Maybe the peacefulness of living among trees had made him that way. “What a relief. We’ll eat plenty this week.” She showed him the armful of roots and mushrooms she had gathered.

Together, they untied the tripwires set around the clearing with deft fingers and began to pick their way through the scrubby plants towards home. The days were at their shortest, with only a watery setting sun lighting their way. Through the canopy, the darkening slate sky hinted at the chance of snow.

“Go on ahead.” Jan stopped at the door to their home, untying the brace of rabbits from his belt and holding it out to Pip. 

“Are you staying outside?” He nodded at the old oak that grew behind the house in answer. Pip sighed. “Of course. Don’t let the cold get into your fingers, though – and don’t be staying out until midnight again.”

Pausing only to tighten his boots and retie his dark hair in its knot to prevent it falling in his eyes, Jan planted the edge of one foot against the lowest knot of the tree. It was like walking the path towards home – muscle memory kicked in, and he scaled the oak with the ease of climbing a set of steps.

It was made easier still by the bare branches at the top – in summer, he had to scrabble through thick leaves and the insects that made them their home. Now, the thickest, highest boughs made for a comfortable seat. And from here, the entire woods stretched out below him.

In summer, a hundred shades of green formed a sea around him, but now he was surrounded by the quiet browns and beiges of bare trees, and as the sun gave up its watch to the moon, all was bathed in its glow. It was still beautiful to him. And beyond – where the woods dwindled and open land began – he could just about make out ghostlike buildings on the horizon, a palace the tallest of them all.

He came up here, where he could breathe, to think. It was a life of survival and simple means, but his head was filled with stories and colours. As ever, as he looked out to the invisible skyline, dark land meeting black sky, he felt his heart twist, like it was missing some vital part. It was strange, to yearn yet never understand what for. 

Was it love he ached for? With a sigh, he dismissed the notion. He’d grown into his twenties but never felt the same interest in girls that his sister had clearly grown to feel for men. He was content, and he couldn’t imagine a wife making him happy.

He sighed again, and turned his thoughts away from the emptiness, and onto something that brought him peace.

He always kept a sharpened feather tucked inside his clothes, and he drew it out, along with the small clay pot of ink ground from petals and beetle shells. He pushed up his sleeve and, dipping the nib into the ink, he began to carefully etch an impression of the landscape onto his pale skin.

Peace bloomed in his heart. There was something about this – creating these simple trees and flowers – that pushed away all other thought, forced him to concentrate on the beauty of the world around him. He stayed in the treetop, drawing silently, as the moon continued its flight across the velvet sky.

***

Donghun froze, paralysed mid-step.

After leaving the tavern, he’d broken into a half-run as his strange mixed memories guided him through the town towards Mac’s farm. His arm had begun to itch at first, then burn, and he had pushed up his sleeve with frustration. What was this, some kind of medieval skin problem? But then he had looked down, and what he saw froze him still.

At first, it looked like small, brown lines creeping across his forearm. Soon, they increased, his skin itching as they multiplied, linking up to form what looked like… trees?

Passers-by threw frowns in his direction as he stood clutching his arm, half bewildered, half engrossed. The lines formed some kind of skyline, some abstract horizon with a sun setting above the trees. It was simple, yet oddly captivating. 

_Wait a second._ Donghun peered closer and his heart fluttered. He knew this style, he had seen these drawings before – in a hundred waiting rooms, over the dinner table, on long plane journeys across the world…

He went to push back his hair, expecting to find bangs and instead finding a long tangle roughly tied back. Could he be right? And in the past life reading, before they blacked out – hadn’t similar markings appeared on his arm? Numbers?

He looked up; the night was growing ever deeper and the temperature dropping by the minute. Frustration mounted – he had to be quick. He needed to get to Mac – Chan – before it got too late.

The accountancy shop was only around the corner, a familiar stop when he – when Fabio - was out delivering letters. The clerk looked affronted as he banged open the door and appeared, red-cheeked, at the front desk.

“Can I borrow a pen?” he asked, resisting the habit to duck his head into a bow.

“A pen..?” the clerk echoed. “I… Yes, if you must.”

Donghun took the feather and pot handed to him and, after briefly fumbling with the lid and mentally deliberating whether the clerk would assume him crazy, pressed the nib of the quill to his arm.

He scratched quick, messy letters onto his skin beneath the floral images.

_Kim Sehyoon?!_

***

A windchime tinkled across the courtyard, breaking the silence of evening. The people of the town had long since battened down in their homes after a long day, or taken refuge in the warmth of a tavern. England’s December night-time was no place to stay.

Three silhouettes, however, stood resolute. The rising moon reflected in the gold buttons adorning their uniforms, otherwise they could have blended into the shadows. None spoke. They simply kept their eyes forward, spines straight, swords hung ominously at their belts.

Merek’s childhood dreams of becoming a knight had been filled with excitement and clashing blades. It had made the long hours of training bearable. Perhaps, he thought now as cold set into his limbs and numbed his toes, if he had known the reality, he would have struggled to find motivation.

It wasn’t a bad life. He and the other knights were housed in the palace, he ate three meals a day, and their quarters were comfortable enough. But the dreams of glory were fading along with his youth, and some days he dreamed of a life where he was free to make friends, drink ale and find love.

He sighed. No point lingering on that now, he thought, as he slipped off a glove to scratch an itch.

He froze.

There, on his hand, along with the old scar his brother had given him sparring – some strange marking. He blinked hard. Casting a glance at the other two knights on guard duty to check he remained unnoticed, he pushed up the sleeve of his uniform. The markings continued – no, wait! They were spreading!

They were… trees? A sun? No, a moon? He watched, dumbstruck, as the spiky sketches bloomed on his arm. Their development paused, and then messy letters began to appear. Two strange words appeared: _Kim Sehyoon_. What on earth did that mean?

Merek shook his head violently as the bell in the clocktower sounded, yanked down his sleeve and shoved his glove back on. He must be exhausted. Over-tired, and a little touched from the cold. He was seeing things. Words and pictures didn’t just break out on a person’s skin like some kind of tribal branding. 

Minutes later, the guards taking over their watch appeared and nodded, signalling relief in Merek’s chest. Without hesitation, he made for his quarters, determined to sleep and drive away this night and its hallucinations.

Sleep claimed Merek as soon as he crawled under his blanket, his fatigued muscles welcoming the respite. Though however much he craved for deep and silent rest, his sleep was filled with fitful dreams. He ran through strange woodland, tall brown trees shaped like the images on his skin, always running but never reaching a destination. Ahead of him, he caught glimpses of a boy with white blonde hair. He tried to call out, but the boy slipped in and out of view. Merek ran faster. The boy turned. Looked at him with dark, angular eyes. He threw out a hand-

Merek woke with a jolt. The sound of his fast breathing filled the silent room. Quickly, the dream faded from his vision and he lay back down, but he put fingers to his cheek. His face was wet with tears.


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A knight, a hunter, a messenger, a jester and a farmer - and only Donghun has come to his senses. He needs to make his way to Chan - and fast. But what of these strange markings appearing on his skin - has he really found a way to reach Sehyoon? And what of Merek and Bali, living their lives of servitude - will they be reunited with their brothers, or will they be trapped in this unhappiness for good?

Even at night, there was no peace to be had. The bells on the scarecrows jangled, failing to do any scaring – instead, they rattled uselessly as the birds kept pecking.

“Piss off, you little swines!” Mac pitched a stone towards them, one eye shut to help his aim. It was no use though – the whiskey got the better of him and the stone landed some ten feet to the right of the crows. He rolled his eyes, and chose to remedy the situation with another long sip of liquor.

At least out here in the fields he was safe from Swan’s berating. He loved that woman dearly, but some rumours of snow had set her all hysterical. He took a long drag on the rolled tobacco between his fingers. No matter the ominous warnings, nothing ever ruffled Mac’s feathers, and that seemed to panic Swan further. _You’d be smiling if the Great Flood came a second time! _That’s what she always told him in the face of his cheeriness. 

The smoke curled up into the night air in sleepy tendrils. He watched them peacefully, but something made his heart skip.

All across his arms, darkness spread.

He blinked repeatedly, but the dark marks remained. No – dark _letters_. He stared, mouth open. The letters formed words.

_MAC ASHDOWN IS KANG YUCHAN!_

A noise of fear escaped Mac as he sat bolt upright on the wall. Eyes like saucers, he watched the same words appear all over his skin. _MAC ASHDOWN IS KANG YUCHAN, MAC ASHDOWN IS KANG YUCHAN, MAC-_

“Jesus wept.” Mac held up his glass suddenly, staring at the amber contents in shock. “What’s _in_ this stuff?” Ignoring the words, he drained the glass.

He should probably stop drinking this stuff anyway – James and his home-brewed toxins were bound to have him seeing some strange things. And his father had always been telling him to drink less.

At the thought of his father, Mac was immediately filled with the same old conflicting emotions. The first was anger, and it crackled round his veins like a current. It had been some years since he had finally walked out of his family home, but the years of his strict upbringing and the way his father pushed him hard – _too_ hard – when he was just a boy still stung. _Don’t end up like me. _That had always been his father’s excuse.

But the static dissipated like always, and left a dull sadness in its wake. Somewhere hidden beneath it all, he still loved his father dearly. Mac could just never forgive how he had been pushed away.

He took a final sigh of smoke into his lungs. The hallucinations faded away and contentment settled back in.

It was only a brief moment of calm. With sudden clamour, the crows let out a series of squawks, jumping into the air and taking off on perturbed wings. And with it came footsteps. Mac turned to see his old friend Fabio running towards him.

“Eh? What are you doing here so late? Did-” For a moment the whiskey blurred his memories; he had been about to ask if Fabio had had a spat with Katrina. But he caught himself - the latest spat had earned Fabio a slap and a likelihood he would never see the girl again. It was nothing new – Katrina was just the latest in the string of women Fabio had been caught up with.

Before he had even greeted him, Fabio grabbed Mac’s arm and wrenched it forward.

“Wah- hey! What are you doing..?” Fabio said nothing, instead he pushed back the sleeve on Mac’s coat, ignoring his protests. From somewhere on his person, he pulled out a feather and a pot of ink. He pressed the nib against his own hand. “Fabio, what the-”

But the words died on Mac’s lips. As the ink left a line on Fabio’s skin, so did a line appear on Mac’s.

This time, Mac panicked completely.

“What in _God’s name_ are you doing?” He grabbed his arm back in fear, stumbling. “What witchcraft is this?” He tripped over backwards, afraid as Fabio stepped closer.

“Listen to me.” Fabio crouched and touched his shoulders, but Mac tried desperately to pull away. What was he capable of? Was he possessed? But Fabio was not so easily swayed. He took Mac’s face in his hands, forcing their eyes to meet.

“Listen.” Fabio took a breath, his gaze never wavering. “My name isn’t Fabio. Well – it is, here and now. I… Lee Donghun. Does that mean anything to you?”  
Mac stared dumbly.

“_Ee_ what?” Was it a spirit? A ghost? He swallowed hard.

“Ah.” Fabio cast around, like he was searching for something. He turned back. “Chan? Channie? Our cute m-m- argh, why can’t I remember the word.” His eyes filled with something like… desperation? “Yuchan?”

Mac stayed mute. What was he supposed to do? Faintly, the scarecrow bells tinkled. For a long minute, Fabio seemed to search for words. Eventually, he looked into his face, and began to sing, slowly.  
__  
_Can you feel my voice reaching out to you?_  
_If it’s not too late, if my heart can reach out to you,_  
_I don’t know what to say,_  
_but will I be able to tell you,_  
_this is me?_  
_My star…_  
  
All of a sudden, Fabio’s eyes looked a lot darker than he remembered them being.

Then, the images assaulted him so hard he forgot to breathe.

Childhood on an island, sitting by the sea to read comic books. His mother singing him lullabies. Crying on the Mokpo Jeju ferry when he left home for Seoul. Four older brothers. One of them jumping and waving from a crowd as his name was called on some televised stage. Another group of boys, singing and dancing. Crying again, afraid that he hadn’t done enough, that he’d fallen behind the others – but this time it was his oldest brother who sat on his bed and wiped his tears…

He stared at the man in front of him.

“Donghun?” he whispered, his voice catching. “Is that… really you?”

Relief passed over Donghun’s eyes – some weirdly familiar expression on this other face. “Chan. Thank god. Do you remember what happened?”  
Chan looked away. Memories of white fog and a bell ringing… He took a sharp intake of breath.

“The past life reading!” Donghun nodded, and Chan searched his face. “W-what about the others?”

“I don’t know. I have a hunch about Sehyoon.” He gestured at his arm. “The ink thing. I don’t know about Kwan and Jun but… But I was thinking while I came down here. In Kwan’s past life, he was some kind of knight, right?” Chan nodded. “The palace, that’s the place to start, if…”

But Chan had stopped listening. His mind raced through the past life readings and memories from Mac’s life scattered into place with his present self, like the rainbow pieces of a kaleidoscope. He stared at Donghun.

“…so it’s worth a try... Chan? What is it?”

Chan spoke slowly. “Junhee was a-”

“-A clown, yes. I don’t know what to do about th-”

“A clown who performed.” Chan stared at him, confidence growing. “What kind of clown dances?” Donghun said nothing, so he answered for him. “A jester. And jesters…”

“…perform at the palace! Ah! Chan, you’re brilliant!” A spark of pride lit up Chan’s heart – even now, here, praise from his brother meant everything. Chan got to his feet and put out a hand to stop Donghun walking away.

“Donghun… My father – Mac’s father – he’s a jester. And he’s called Bali. Just like in the reading.”

Donghun turned to stare at him slowly. For a moment, his face was unreadable, then he gave a grim smile.

“Well… _that’s _messed up.” He sighed. “Guess we need to pay this dad of yours a visit.” He turned to go, but for a second time Chan held him back. “What now?”

Chan reddened, then nodded towards the farmhouse. “We should probably wait until morning. It’s the middle of the night and I… I have a wife, remember?”

Donghun raised an eyebrow and sighed. “Of course you do. Fine, we set off first thing.” And he rolled his eyes in a manner so familiar, that for a fleeting moment, Chan felt he could have been back with his friend in Seoul.

***

The morning brought a light and steady rain that filtered through the woods and turns everything slick. Jan sat against the side of the house, sheltered by the largest oak. He adored the rain. It acted as an amplifier to the beating heart of the woodland – every leaf became crisp, every plant shifted under beads of water, the scent of moss and dirt plumed.

For once, Jan’s attention was not on the stirring of the life around him. He finished the string of flowers in ink across his palm. After yesterday – and the letters that had appeared on his arm as he had sat drawing in the tree – he was more excited than he cared to admit. Where had those letters come from? Was it some kind of magic?

He added raindrops to his patterns, impatient. Maybe it had just been his own tired eyes playing tricks. 

But as he paused, studying his own creations, a brown line began to move beneath the petals. Jan’s pulse doubled. Fascinated, he watched as the line turned a circle, and became the centre of a rudimental flower. Pausing carefully to check that the drawing had stopped, he added a stalk to this new bloom, and tiny leaves. He waited.

Sure enough, lines began to appear on their own accord, adding grass to this joint drawing on his skin. 

Jan sat back against the house, eyes bright. He thought quickly. Was it magic? Was there someone behind the drawing? A spirit? He dipped his quill back in the inkpot, hesitated, then wrote neatly beneath the flowers: _Who are you?_

For a long moment, nothing happened. The edges of the flower began to fade slowly in the order they had been drawn. A creeping disappointment crept through Jan’s chest. Then-

_My name is Merek. Who are you?_

Jan knocked over his ink pot in his haste to reply. He cursed, scooting away from the rapidly spreading ink, and with shaking hands wrote his response.  


_Jan Pil. Are you a spirit?_

A pause.

_No. I’m a knight. What are you?_

_I’m a hunter. I live here._

Jan drew a hurried sketch of the woodland, memorised from his favourite vantage point, with the town and palace on the horizon. 

_I’m no artist_, came the reply, and Jan broke into a smile. Merek’s next lines were hesitant and slow coming, so much so that the words from before had faded entirely by the time he finished. Jan could make out a crude outline of a high-up window that looked down over a town. _He must be in the palace,_ he mused. 

He began his reply, but nearby footsteps made him jump with guilt. He pushed down his sleeve just in time as Pip appeared around the corner.

“What are you doing?” she asked, immediately frowning in suspicion. She eyed the spilled ink and quill in his hand. He shrugged, choosing nonchalance to stop his sister’s questioning. “Well, I need help with skinning these rabbits.”

“Sure. I’m coming.” Jan waited for Pip to disappear back inside before pulling up his sleeve. A question mark stood out on his skin. Hastily, he wrote a response.

_I have to go. But I’ll write to you again soon._

He stood up, shaking the dust from his trousers, just as small word appeared in haste.

_Promise?_

Jan smiled. _Yes. I promise. _

***

Morning performances drew a small crowd. Even so, Bali far preferred these public displays to the private performances in the palace. The people in the town were always grateful and attentive – whereas the nobility was always too busy trying to score social points with one another to pay attention.

Today there was no dancing. He gave his co-performer a half smile, and she began to pluck out a familiar melody on her lute. A breeze caught Bali’s hair, and he took a deep breath and began to sing the old folk song.  
__  
_O the tides will rise and the waves roll in_  
_I will search for you, my love_  
_O the sun will rise as the day begins_  
_I will search for you, my love_

_I don’t know your name, I don’t know your face_  
_And I’ve yet to hear your voice_  
_But o’ my love, it’s you I chase_  
_For my heart has made its choice._

_O the seasons change and the days grow dark_  
_I will search for you, my love_  
_Then when Spring returns to the song of the lark_  
_I will search for you, my love_

_Across a hundred lives and a thousand years,_  
_For our love I will rejoice_  
_Wherever I am, wherever you are_  
_O’ my heart has made its choice._  
  
His final note carried out into the crystal morning and died amongst the smattering of applause. He gave a wistful smile, looking out over the crowds. 

As he did, his gaze met a young man and instantly, his heart jolted. The stranger looked at him with a neutral expression, yet there was something in that intense stare, something in those dark eyes… Like they made some sleeping memory stir. Bali felt inexplicably shaky, like someone had thrown ice water down his back. He wrenched his gaze away, ducked a swift bow and hurried from the stage.

_Who was that?_ He wound through the other performers, shaken. _Ah, you’re being ridiculous. It was just a stranger, I sh-_

As he rounded the corner, he nearly walked straight into someone. He recoiled. The man from the crowd.

“I’m sorry,” Bali gabbled, keeping his eyes resolutely on the floor and making to move around the stranger. He flinched as a hand touched his arm. “Who are-”

He stopped, frozen. For the first time, he saw a second man standing behind this newcomer. The world tilted, and for a moment his words stuck in his throat.

“Mac? Is that you?” At the sight of his son, his emotions betrayed him, and the lump in his throat welled instead as tears that he couldn’t quite blink away. Mac smiled – God above, it had been years since he had seen that boy even close to a smile.

“Yeah, it’s me, J- I mean, Bal- I…” Mac flushed and Bali stared at him. His son looked positively happy to see him. What on earth had happened? Bali hadn’t seen his boy since the day he had left for good – and in the years before that, their relationship had been nothing but venom and fighting.

“Listen, we need to speak to you.” The stranger tightened his grip on Bali’s arm, and the jester tore his eyes from his son. When he spoke, the words came out with a viciousness he couldn’t control, perturbed by this person who had made his spine tingle.

“Who in God’s name are you?” Bali saw a flash of hurt appear on his face.

“My name is Donghun.” There was a weighted pause left after his name, and Bali remained mute. “Listen, I… Has anything strange been happening to you recently? Any… memories, that feel out of place? Have any weird patterns and words been appearing on your skin?” This Donghun widened his eyes, looking expectant.

Bali took a step back and swallowed. He didn’t want to think about the markings that has been appearing, like some kind of curse, some witchcraft. He had watched it all morning, like two people having a conversation – Jan the hunter and Merek the knight, the writing had said. Were they the names of some kind of spirits? How did this man know about them – and why was his son involved?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Even to himself, his voice was unconvincing.

“Yes, you do.” Donghun pulled a feather from his coat pocket, and pushed up his sleeve. “I can prove it.”

At that moment, he grabbed Bali’s hand and wrenched back his sleeve. Bali tried to stop him, but it was too late.

“What..?” Donghun’s voice trailed off as he stared at Bali’s arm. Once again, the lump returned to the jester’s throat.

“What, did you think this life was easy? That the ones walking round with those batons treat us any better than a common slave?” He snorted derisively, looking down at his own arm, although he had long-since grown familiar with the state of his own skin. Years of performances meant years of mistakes, and mistakes meant punishment. His arms and back were a patchwork of old and new scars, bruises leaking purple across his wrist from a bad mood Asher had flown into last week.

The sight of his own disfigurement was no great shock anymore. What came as a surprise were the tears that brimmed in this Donghun’s eyes.

“Junhee…” He croaked, brushing a thumb across a particularly bad welt on his forearm. “What have they done to you?”

Bali wrenched back his arm, perturbed. Who _was_ he? Why would any stranger care about some jester? His expression frosted over.

“I don’t know who you are but I’m sorry, you shouldn’t even be here. I have to go.” He risked one glance at Mac and his insides lurched, but he tore himself away and turned on his heel. His heart skipped as Donghun grabbed him and hauled him back around.

“Junhee, _no_. Please, let me talk to you-”

“You’ve mistaken me for someone else. You don’t know me!”

“Yes, I do, it’s _me_, I-”

“I told you to _leave me alone_!” Bali shoved Donghun away, and without waiting another second, turned and ran between the other performers, away from his son, away from this strange young man, and away from the inexplicable sense of familiarity knocking at his heart.


	4. Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donghun and Chan have reunited, buoyed by the ease with which they found Junhee. But Bali the jester, his body and heart beaten down, didn't recognise them.
> 
> Meanwhile, Jan the hunter and Merek the knight have started to write to one another through ink on their skin - but they remain oblivious to their present identities.
> 
> Can Donghun and Chan find Byeongkwan and Sehyoon and remind them of their true selves? And what of Junhee - is he condemned to this cruel life for good? As the snow begins to fall, they might not have as much time as they think...

“Donghun, slow _down_.”

Chan’s voice trailed after him as they stalked away from the performers’ tent. Donghun stopped dead and waited for Chan to catch up. His heart pounded a furious rhythm, his hands trembled. Chan looked wary.

“What are we going to do?” It was strange, seeing Chan’s eyes turn round with worry, with the same old chewed lip, but on this pale, freckled face. Donghun looked away. He had assumed getting through to Junhee would have been as easy as getting through to Chan. After all, their bonds were so tight, weren’t they? No matter what lifetime they were in, they would know each other’s eyes, wouldn’t they..?

But Junhee hadn’t recognised him. 

_You don’t know me._

The vicious words circulated again and again, along with a wave of nausea. Why hadn’t he felt some sense of familiarity? They couldn’t leave him there, they couldn’t leave him to be beaten and bruised that way, they-

“Donghun? What do we do n-”

“I don’t fucking _know_, Yuchan!” 

His words whipped through the air like the slice of a knife.

For a moment, Chan stared at him. Then he took a step forward. “I know it’s scary but I’m not-”

“Scary? Scary?” Donghun wheeled round. “That’s my best friend, having the life beaten out of him.” The lump that lodged in his throat made it difficult to breathe. He forced it not to turn into tears. “That’s my brother, who seems to believe no one in this world would care about him and-”

“-And he’s mine too.” Chan grabbed Donghun’s collar and shoved him back. His jaw was set; the fear in his eyes had given way to fire. “Don’t even try it. I get it, you two are best friends. Just like Sehyoon and Kwan have their friendship.” His bottom lip wobbled. “But you all need to stop pretending like I’m just some ‘extra’ in all this. Do you know how that makes me feel? You four paired off as friends, and I’m just the kid brother.”

Donghun’s anger evaporated in the heat of his guilt. “Channie, I don’t-”

“No. Listen.” Chan took a deep breath. “I get it, I’m the youngest. I look to you all for guidance. But that?” He pointed back in the direction they had come, back towards Junhee. “That hurt me just as much as it hurt you. He should have recognised me too. So stop acting like I’m the one who gets ‘looked after’ but can’t care for any of you. Because that isn’t fair. Not in this life, or any other.”

For a moment, static crackled between them. Chan held his gaze, unwavering.

“You’re right.” Donghun hung his head. “I’m sorry.” He smiled ruefully. “I guess we still see you as the teenager fresh out of Jeju… I just don’t always know what to do. I don’t know what to do right now.”

“That’s okay.” Chan once more put a hand on his arm, gently this time. “You don’t have to. As the youngest, I don’t need to be looked after all the time. And as the oldest, you don’t have to be strong all the time.”

“…Thank you.”

“Let’s think this through.” Chan pulled himself up onto a nearby wall, kicking at the stones with his heels. “We need to get home.”

Donghun murmured in agreement, sitting next to him. “How though?” He watched a group of children run past, their coats pulled tight against the sprinkling of snowflakes beginning to make their descent. “How did we get here?”

“I remember bells.” Chan looked thoughtful. “I couldn’t breathe, but I could hear a bell ring-”

“-nine times,” they said in unison.

“Hm.” Donghun frowned, trying to recall that white room. The flashing lights, the fog, the bells… The numbers! He sat up. “Numbers appeared on my arm! 1, 3, 8, 3. The way the writing has appeared on our skin here.”

“A year?” Chan shrugged, then looked around at the town. “This year?”

Donghun looked at him in surprise.

“And,” Chan continued, pushing back his blonde hair. “The bell rang nine times. What time was it? Nine at night. So, what if it’s somehow all connected? The bell ringing nine times, the hour turning to nine, the writing on our skin… Some crack in the timelines at nine o’clock? Maybe it could be reversed? What if we wrote _2019_ on ourselves at nine o’clock, maybe it would take us back…” He stopped, looking at Donghun warily. “What?”

“You’re brilliant.” He shook his head slowly. “You’re _smart_.”

“I… have been trying to tell you that.”

“So,” Donghun said as he hopped down from the wall, a renewed sense of hope blossoming. “Let’s get everyone together. We’ll come back to Junhee, we’ll… work something out.”

Chan shook the dust from his trousers. “Let’s find Kwan. Merek. We know where he is, and he might have some ideas about Junhee. He’s always been the brains of the outfit.” 

Donghun cuffed him over the head as they set off down the path. “I resent that.”

***

Jan watched the early evening snow fall faster and faster, until it became impossible to follow the journey of a single flake. The frozen ground was the perfect canvas for the layers of white to build up, and soon the ground was covered in a thick mantle. He tilted his face up, staring skywards, until the flurrying made his head spin and he felt drunk. He blinked and shook his head to clear it.

Shivering, he tightened the swath of blankets he had buried himself under and put out a hand to the candles burning on his windowsill. He had even let down his hair – though it irritated him, it kept the frost from nibbling his ears. A bubble of apprehension was present in his stomach. Staying warm in this amount of snow was not going to be easy.

But overriding the anxiety was a sense of excitement. Despite the cold, he wriggled one arm free of the blankets and curled icy fingers around his quill. The pale skin of his forearm was like a blank sheet of paper, one he hoped would soon be filled.

_Hello, Merek?_

The snow fell and nothing happened. The letters began to fade in sync with his anticipation. Then-

_Hello, Jan Pil._

Just like last time, Jan’s heart set to racing. He began to scrawl as quickly as he could.

_I hope you’re keeping warm._

_Yes. It’s warm enough in the palace. Are you?_

Little clouds of frost appeared as Jan breathed. _Pretty cold. But I’ll be okay._

_I’m glad you wrote again._

Jan smiled. Merek was clearly happy to hear from him. His heart warmed despite the weather. _I promised I would._

He paused, a sneeze playing at the tip of his nose. Looking back at his arm, his eyes widened. New letters, in a different style, took the place of his own reply.

_Meet me outside the palace. In the courtyard._

Jan stared. The handwriting was different – not the neat, educated italics of Merek, these letters were hasty and spidery. And sure enough, a response came from Merek.

_You’re here?_

_Yes,_ came the scribbled reply. _Come and meet me._

Alarm set in. Jan grabbed his quill and began to write. _No, I-_

Mid-sentence, the door banged opened, and Jan leaped in fright. He shoved down his sleeve and stared at Pip.

“Jan, you need to come _now_.” His sister’s face was stricken and he was hit with the sick feeling of impending crisis. He leaped to his feet, depositing blankets to the floor, and followed his sister out the room.

It was immediately clear what was wrong. In the corner of the house, a long, jagged crack ran across the roof, leaving their house exposed to the heavens. Through the hole, the snow pushed inwards, beating down with renewed intensity and rapidly piling onto the floor.

“Jan? Jan, what are we going to do?” A note of hysteria crept into Pip’s voice. He took her shoulders.

“It’s okay. I’ll fix it.”

“How? How can you fix_ that_?” She stared at the fracture in terror, and fear stole into Jan’s heart. “Jan, if we don’t fix it – there’s a blizzard setting in, we’re going to freeze to death.”

***

Chan jittered on the spot, nervous and cold. Next to him, Donghun’s face was set, despite the snowflakes clinging to his eyelashes. He seemed confident that this would work. When Merek and Jan – Byeongkwan and Sehyoon – had started writing to each other, they had seized their opportunity. Telling Merek to meet them out here in the courtyard was their best chance. But he still needed to be reminded of who he was.

“Look,” Donghun murmured, nodding at a doorway to their right. Chan’s heart skipped. Sure enough, a dark-haired figure walked towards them, an intimidating blade hung at his belt. As he drew closer, the wariness on his face became clear. Donghun stepped forward.

“Merek?”

The knight stopped, looking round at the dark courtyard as though searching for someone else. When he found it otherwise deserted, he gave a curt nod. “Are you… Is one of you… Jan?”

Chan let Donghun do the speaking.

“No, but we need to talk to you.” Merek’s expression immediately frosted over and Donghun reached out a placating hand. “Please. Just hear us out?”

Merek’s face gave away nothing, but he did not walk away.

“We know about the writing on your skin. It’s okay, we see it too.” Donghun pulled out the battered feather and the ink pot, and quickly wet the nib. “Watch.” He drew a single, straight line from wrist to elbow, and Chan held out his arm too. Sure enough, the line glistened down his skin as well. He looked at Merek expectantly.

The knight watched, his expression perfectly controlled. Slowly, he rolled back his own sleeve. The line matched perfectly. 

“We’re all connected. There are five of us.” Chan found his voice and Donghun nodded him on. “We’re not the one you’ve been talking to, but-”

“How do you know about who I’ve been talking to?” Merek’s voice carried an accusatory tone.

“Well, we-” Chan trailed off and Donghun stepped in.

“When you write, it shows up on our skin too. We feel that burning sensation and we can see your words. There’s a fifth person, too-”

“So you’ve been reading my conversations?” To Chan’s surprise, Merek flushed – whether with anger, embarrassment, or both, he couldn’t tell.

“Yes, but there’s a reason…”

Donghun stopped talking at the same moment Chan turned to look over his shoulder. Footsteps echoes in the quiet courtyard, and it was with surprise he recognised the slim figure approaching them through the snow. Chan looked quickly at Donghun, whose face filled with unmasked hope.

The new individual was silent as he stopped in front of them. His brown eyes were filled with some unreadable emotion.

“I… I hope you don’t mind me coming.” Bali’s eyes flickered up to Chan’s, but he looked away quickly and stared resolutely at the ground. “I knew you were meeting here… from the…” He gestured at his own arm. “The strange words… just like you said about.”

No one spoke.

When Bali took a step towards Donghun, Chan’s stomach turned over. For a long moment, the jester searched his face in silence. When Bali spoke, it was so quiet, Chan barely caught the words. 

“We know each other, don’t we?” Bali looked at Chan. The emotion that crashed in his chest was unexpected, and fierce.

“We do.” Donghun put his hands on Bali’s shoulders, making the jester wince as he returned his eyes to the floor. Donghun put a finger under Bali’s chin and pulled his face up. “This life has been hard on you, but for every day you’ve felt like no one out there cares, you have to believe me – you’ve always had us. The days you’ve felt alone, you never truly were, because the five of us… It doesn’t matter what life we’re in, I’ll always find you. Wherever I am, wherever you are. Across a hundred lives and a thousand years. I’ll search for you.”

Tears dripped off Chan’s chin silently. Bali looked up, tears leaking from his own eyes.

“But I can’t remember.” He shoulders began to shake with sobs. “Why can’t I remember?”

Donghun used his thumb to wipe away the teardrops from Bali’s face, but his own tears made his voice quiver. “We’re from Seoul. And you sing, and dance, just like you do here. Remember when we went to Canada? And we saw the waterfalls, and you got all pissed off because your makeup ran?” Donghun laughed through his tears. “When you and Chan were on _The Unit_, Kwan, Sehyoon and I on _Mixnine_, and we realised that going a day without each other actually hurt? So – so we wrote silly things on each other’s backpacks, and we called each other at night. Remember the time we argued at the dorm? And you were so mad at me, you walked out the house, but when you came home you’d brought me dinner because I hadn’t eaten that day, and even though you were so angry, you made me food because you couldn’t watch me go hungry?” Donghun’s face was screwed up, sobs breaking free from his chest.

“Please remember. I know I’m bad at saying it, I never tell you, and I take you for granted, but the four of you are my family. You’re my brother. And I love you so much.”

Bali looked up, as the clocktower began to chime out for eight o’clock. 

“…Donghun?”

Chan’s heart leaped.

“Yes, it’s me, Park Junhee, it’s me…”

***

Merek watched the interaction unfold and allowed no emotions to cross his face. The older of the men leaned his forehead on this Donghun’s shoulder to cry, and soon both were enveloped by the youngest man in a crushing hug. The anger he felt at his privacy being invaded slowly softened. He had never heard such a candid speech as the one just now.

But still, he felt uneasy at the thought of his conversation with Jan being intercepted. As the blizzard coated the four men in white, he needed to know if his new-found friend was safe…

In an instant, a clamour broke the peace.

The bell that rang sparked fear into his heart in a single breath. The alarm bell.

Where moments ago, all was peaceful, the courtyard broke into commotion.

“What’s..?” Shock dried the tears of the three other men as they looked around, bewildered. 

“No…” Merek breathed. He grabbed the arm of a passing soldier. “Is it-?”

“The Northmen! They’re using the cover of the blizzard to strike! Captain, you have to come quickly, all forces to the walls!” The whites of the young soldier’s eyes flashed in fear. “Hurry!”

Merek swore viciously under his breath. They knew an imminent attack was likely – but so soon? And so close? How had they been able to draw near to the palace without a sentry raising the alarm sooner?

He turned to run towards the northern gate, but a firm grip grabbed his arm. Wrenched back, the young man who called himself Donghun stared at him.

“You can’t leave!”

Merek tried to yank back his arm. “Let go of me! There’s an invasion, don’t you see? We’re under attack and I have to-”

Donghun held tight, his eyes growing wider as he stared into Merek’s face. God above, why was this kid so strong?

“Invasion…” he echoed, his tone riddled with dread. “No, it can’t be…” He stared at his companions. “Invasion! An assault. Byeongkwan’s past life reading. How did he die?”

“In an assault on the pal…” The youngest man recoiled visibly. “That’s not… It can’t be. Is it happening now?”

“And I was there.” The jester’s voice filled with panic. “BK said-”

“Let me go!” Merek broke free. “I have to defend our king! It’s my duty!”

“No!” Donghun grabbed him again, and for a moment they struggled against one another. “For Christ’s sake-!”

“Get off me-”

“KIM BYEONGKWAN! OPEN YOUR EYES!”

And Donghun smacked him across the face, hard.

He barely felt the ice knock the wind from his chest. A thousand images blinked through his mind in an instant, food, dancing, running, singing, crying, laughing, screaming cheers and moments of gentle silence. Seoul. Canada. Japan. Europe.

“Kwan?”

He stared up into the face of the man crouched before him, round blue eyes and a littering of freckles. He swallowed.

“Chan?”

“Yes! Oh, thank god you’re with us.”

But Byeongkwan wasn’t listening. Instead, he stared at the people running about them, the alarm bell peeling out through the thickening snow. Panic bled through his veins colder than the snowstorm.

“But I told the professor about an assault in my reading. They… I said I would die that night!” He stared up at Junhee. “And Junhee would die with me!”

Donghun pulled him to his feet. They stood facing each other.

“That night is happening.” He looked out to the darkness of the city walls, as the first scream split the air. “It’s tonight.”


	5. Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a tumult of emotion, Donghun and Chan have succeeded in reminding Junhee and Kwan of their identities. They stand reunited - but in a moment of horror, they realise that the invasion foretold in their past life readings is, in fact, tonight. The night Junhee and Byeongkwan would lose their lives.
> 
> Time is running out. Can A.C.E return to the present day, before it's too late? Can they rescue Sehyoon - who is facing the blizzard stranded out in the woods? 
> 
> Can they reunite, all five, in Seoul - whether by chance, or by choice?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter of By Chance or By Choice. Thank you so much for reading so far. I've truly enjoyed writing this story and I hope you've enjoyed reading it just as much.
> 
> If you enjoy it, please do leave a comment. I would absolutely love to hear what you thought.
> 
> Until next time, friends.
> 
> "I love you: for all that you are, all that you have been, and all you are yet to be." — Anon

Junhee cast around in panic. The town – normally so peaceful – filled with shouting. Soldiers flooded from the palace, drawing swords as they ran. The alarm bell rang, rang, rang…

“We have to go tonight.” Even Donghun’s voice made him jump. They all turned to him. “We can’t alter what happened. At least two of us die in this life tonight. And who knows what that would mean for our present-day selves, stuck in these bodies?” 

“You mean,” Byeongkwan said, looking sick, “if we die here, we might not ever go back to our Korean lives?”

They were silent while fear sunk into their stomachs.

“Chan and I have an idea.” Donghun looked at their youngest, who gave a curt nod. “We thought things through while trying to get through to each of you.”

“It’s nearly nine,” Chan added quickly. “We need to hear a bell ring at nine. And the alarm-” He stopped abruptly.

“The alarm has stopped ringing.” Donghun gave a vicious hiss. “Shit, why?”

“It rings thirty times to signal the alarm,” Byeongkwan answered. “Then it’s all men to arms.”

Junhee watched them, trying to keep up with their ideations while his heart beat a frantic rhythm. “The clocktower rings out on the hour? If we need a bell to ring…”

“Yes!” Donghun lit up, and immediately began to move. “We don’t have much time, we need to get to the clocktower!” Junhee and Chan began to follow him, but as they broke into a run, a voice stopped them dead.

“Are you out of your _minds_?”

They span around. Byeongkwan remained where he stood. His eyes were filled with fire.

“Kwan, we need to move, _now_-”

“What about Sehyoon?” He stared at them as though they had gone crazy. “We need to get Sehyoon!” He looked around desperately. “I know where he is – well, I know the woods. I can find him! I can take us to him, I-”

Junhee met Donghun’s eyes. He saw in them the same appalling resignation that turned his own stomach.

“Kwan…” Junhee started, even though the words were dreadful enough to slice open his own throat as he spoke them. “We have to go now. If we don’t, we might not get another chance…”

“Are you suggesting we leave him behind?” Kwan stared at them all in turn. “You’d leave your own brother here?” The anger that sizzled through the air shocked the hairs on the nape of Junhee’s neck.

“It’s that or we all die.” Donghun’s voice was firm. “We don’t even know if this will work. We can try, it might bring Sehyoon with us, it might reset everything.”

“But you don’t know that! There are no _bells_ where he is, if you’re so sure that’s the-”

“Kwan, we've no time for this!” Junhee shouted as he stalked up to Byeongkwan, driven by fear. “We’re going to _die_-”

“Then _let me die_!” Byeongkwan stared at him, eyes brimming. His voice cracked. “Let me stay here, and die. What if we go back and he’s not there? I don’t want to... to…” His face broke, and Junhee mustered all his strength to choke down the emotion threatening to crash over him. They needed a leader now, more than ever. He had no choice.

“We’re not letting that happen. But we need to go now. Please, Kwan, don’t just throw your life away here. We don’t know what’s going to happen but if we lose…” He couldn’t say it. “I’m not losing you too.”

For a long moment, Byeongkwan searched his face, tears silently dripping from his chin. With all the strength he could gather, Junhee held his gaze.

Finally, Byeongkwan gave the smallest nod, and crumpled against Junhee’s chest as sobs wrenched from his throat.

For a long moment, the sounds of growing clamour faded away, and left nothing but the snow beating down over them.

“Can I borrow the feather?” Byeongkwan choked, looking up through his tears at Donghun. Donghun hesitated, then held out the quill.

“Quickly, Kwan. And I mean quickly.” 

Junhee felt the familiar tingle on his arm as Byeongkwan wrote with trembling hands. As soon as he finished, Donghun urged them onwards.

“The clocktower. Junhee, lead the way!” Together, they broke into a run.

Behind them, the discarded feather floated down to the ground, abandoned. It settled onto its grave of white. Fresh snow rapidly buried it, where it would freeze, and be forgotten.

***

Jan pulled Pip closer, propping his chin on her head. It didn’t stop her crying. He had already pulled off the last of his own blankets and wrapped them round his sister. But her fingers were still turning blue, frost freezing her tears even as they fell. He kept his arms around her. He would keep his arms around her until the end.

The tingling warmth on his forearm felt like fire compared to the rest of his skin. It took all the strength he could muster to turn his face to look.

Familiar italics curled across his arm.

_I promise, I’ll carry you in my heart forever. In every life I ever live. Promise me you’ll do the same._

Distantly, as darkness began to blur the corners of his vision, Jan felt something sate that every-present sense of longing in his heart. What was always missing, finally felt whole.

_Promise me you’ll do the same. I love you. Always._

***

“Faster!”

The four men tore down the street, blinded by the blizzard. Chan blinked furiously to clear flakes from his eyes, desperate not to lose sight of Junhee. Ice smarted his lungs like shards of glass.

“This way!” Ahead, Junhee rounded a corner into the town square. They each skidded to a halt.

Figures dressed in fur had broken through the gates. They lofted blades and maces above their heads, yelling with barbaric triumph. Chan let out a strangled cry and grabbed Byeongkwan’s arm, as one the town’s soldiers tried and failed to force back an invader. The sword drove clean through his stomach.

Filled with the thrill of murder, those dark eyes turned to Chan.

“Run! _RUN_!”

The four pelted across the square, overtaken by blind panic. Junhee leaped onto a steep staircase on the other side, hurdling three steps at a time with Donghun and Byeongkwan close behind. Chan vaulted up the first four, but cried out as his boot slipped on the icy top step and he slammed onto his front. 

“Ah!” His head span, breath wrenched from his chest. He looked up, dizzy, and the three others skittered to a halt. He waved them on. “Go!”

“No way.” Donghun skated back down the steps, holding out a hand and hauling Chan to his feet. He grabbed his arm firmly. “We’re nothing without you. We’re not leaving you behind.” Chan took the hand offered to him and followed as quickly as he could, half running, half dragged.

They threw themselves up the winding staircase of the clocktower. As they burst out to the platform encircling the bell, the full force of the blizzard smashed into them. The ice came in sideways, burning their skin like a thousand bullets. Around them, the blood-stained town was bleached to a dying white.

“It’s nearly nine!” Donghun yelled over the wind, his hair whipping around his face. “We need to write – Kwan, where’s the quill?” 

Byeongkwan stared back at him, and then at Chan. 

“I don’t have it.”

They all fell backwards as the bell let out a piercing toll.

_Clang._

“Agghh!” Chan clapped his hands over his ears. “It’s nine! What are we-”

_Clang._

Donghun grabbed Byeongkwan, snatched the dagger that hung at his belt and wrenched up the sleeve of his own coat. Without a pause, he turned the sharp point in on his own forearm, and sliced four numbers into his skin.

_Clang._

Chan’s own arm seethed with pain. Bloody numbers sputtered into existence._ 2019._

_Clang._

Donghun and Chan stared at each other, tears running down their cheeks from the cold. Donghun yelled out. 

“Nothing is happening!”

_Clang._

“Is this your plan?” Junhee cried. “The bell, the numbers… what else happened in the past life reading?”

_Clang._

Chan thought desperately. The way Junhee had convulsed… Sehyoon and Byeongkwan holding him down… Donghun grabbing his fingers… Chan, terrified, holding onto Donghun’s arm…

_Clang._

“Hold hands!” Chan yelled suddenly. The others stared at him. He threw out his arms. “We were all holding each other. Hold hands!”

_Clang._

The four jumped forwards and snatched each other’s fingers. Screams from the town below joined the screech of the wind. The snow beat down, until it became all-encompassing, like fog. The world grew brighter. Chan’s head swam.

_Clang._

The bell tolled a ninth time. And all turned to white.

***

Donghun’s head hurt. The idea of opening his eyes was too much. He lay where he was, his cheek against a cold surface.

Fingers touched his wrist.

Slowly, he peeled open his eyes, and looked up to see Chan sat beside him. Donghun sat up.

“Channie!” He looked into the _maknae_’s wide brown eyes. Gone were Mac’s white skin and freckles; this was the present Chan, the Korean Chan. His heart skipped. He looked down and felt a torrent of relief flush through his veins upon seeing his own familiar hands. He cast about: they were here, sat on the floor of the room where their past-life reading had taken place. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “We did it.”

“Mmmhhh.” Across the room, Junhee peeled himself from the floor, rubbing his face as he blinked himself back into consciousness. Byeongkwan too, righted himself.

In a moment of purest fear, Donghun looked around the rest of the room.

It was just the four of them.

“No…” he managed, his voice and his heart breaking. “No, please no…”

Reality struck Junhee and Chan next. A strangled noise escaped their _maknae_.

“Sehyoon-_hyung_?” the youngest called out, looking desperately around the room. “Sehni?”

Donghun met Junhee’s gaze as droplets began to roll down his face. Junhee stared straight through him, his eyes huge with tears.

The pain of the cry that came from the corner of the room shattered Donghun’s heart.

Junhee moved at the same time he did. They both put an arm across Byeongkwan’s shoulders as he creased forward, and howled.

“Why did I leave him?” Byeongkwan’s voice didn’t sound like his own; it ripped from his throat laced with soul-wrenching pain. “Why didn’t I go to him, I could have saved him…”

“Stop it.” Donghun grabbed Byeongkwan’s screwed-up face and turned it up to his, even though he couldn’t fight his own tears. “We had no choice, Kwan, we would have all died. We would never have made it to him that night, we…” He stopped as a noise escaped his throat. For a moment, he wrestled with his own grief. “There was nothing we could-”

Byeongkwan pulled away, turning to press his forehead to the wall. For a moment, he simply wept.

“I can’t be without you, _hyung_, how am I supposed to go on living if you’re not here too?”

Minutes passed, tears fell.

Donghun pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to take steadying breaths. The tears began to slow. He rubbed his forehead, then frowned.

Why… was he crying?

He opened his eyes and looked at Junhee. He was drying his face on his shirt, as Chan sniffed and blinked, now dry-eyed. Donghun looked down. What had they been crying about? Some memory flitted around the edges of his consciousness, like a dream that faded to nothing after waking up from a night’s deep sleep. He remembered the readings and then… had he nodded off?

“I… Oh. That’s weird. I just suddenly felt really emotional.” Chan looked up, an embarrassed smile crossing his face. Junhee nodded, also looking puzzled.

“Maybe it was some kind of weird hangover from the past-life reading?” Donghun watched Byeongkwan get to his feet, rubbing his cheek with a sleeve. “Ugh, I feel all disoriented. Like the reading knocked it out of me.” Donghun stood up too.

“Did the staff just bugger off?” He scowled playfully at the door. “Man, we must have napped again.” He chuckled. “Turns out hypnosis is oddly relaxing, who knew.”

They laughed. Together, they pulled on the jackets hung at the door.

“So, do you believe you were a clown in some past life, Junhee? Reckon it sounds about right.” Donghun laughed as Junhee swatted at his face.

As they were about to leave the room, Chan held out a hand to stop them. “Hey.” He bent to pick up something from the ground. “Did anybody lose their dog tag?” Donghun, Junhee and Byeongkwan all shook their heads, holding up the A.C.E necklaces hung around their necks. Chan frowned, passing it to Donghun. He turned the tag over. 

“Huh. Weird. It’s blank. Must be a spare.”

With a shrug, Donghun tossed the tag down on a chair and followed his friends from the room.

*** _Epilogue_ ***

The table in the middle of the living room was filled with half-finished takeout dishes and chopsticks abandoned on the sides of plates. A sudden wrestling match on the floor sent everything wobbling precariously.

“Watch it,” Byeongkwan grinned, shaking his head in mock disapproval as Junhee smacked Chan, only making him laugh louder. “That’s tomorrow’s breakfast.”

“Or my midnight snack,” Donghun added from his place sat cross-legged and plugged into a video game.

Chan and Junhee sat up, their hair stood up wildly. Chan rubbed his arm.

“Ah. My shoulders are so sore.”

“You really went for it on _Music Bank_ today, Channie.” Donghun paused the game and looked round.

“Always!” Chan grinned, trying to tame his bangs. “I don’t know, smaller groups like us have so much ground to make up if we want our stages to be powerful. It’s easy for groups with, like, twelve members. There’s only four of us!”

They began to dissect their own performance, as they always did. Byeongkwan listened for a few minutes before quietly excusing himself. He left his friends and padded into his bedroom, shutting the door quietly.

He welcomed a moment of peace. He crossed the room, scraping his fingers through his hair, and leaned on the windowsill. Outside, clusters of umbrellas hurried down the street, dashing through the rainy Seoul evening. Rivulets made their way helter-skelter down the glass in front of his nose, and he traced them with his thumb.

He sighed. He felt a little melancholic today. The performance had gone well, his friends were in high spirits, and the happy faces of Choice in the audience stayed in his memory. But it was there again, that familiar little sadness that lingered in his chest, a little raincloud that never seemed to lift.

He felt his heart twist, like it was missing some vital part. It was strange, to yearn yet never understand what for. 

All their hard work was paying off – this comeback had been a success, the company was delighted with them, the album had sold well. And he loved the boys dearly – in A.C.E, he had three brothers. He shouldn’t have a care in the world.

He sighed a second time, trying to chase away the gloominess. Casting his eyes over the windowsill, he picked up a toy from his childhood. He couldn’t even remember where he’d gotten the little thing, but it had travelled with him to every home and every dorm he had lived in. He turned the wind-up key on the back of the little wooden robot. Setting it down on the surface, he released it, and watched with a smile as it went running across the windowsill.

His spirits lifted, just a little.


End file.
